


Let Me In

by brage



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After care- rape, Anal Sex, Denial, First Time, John is a Saint, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protectiveness, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 17:32:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11212854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brage/pseuds/brage
Summary: Sherlock decides that his magnificent Mind Palace could be reprogrammed to a more pleasant collection of sexual encounters to deal with the flashbacks and nightmares Serbia had left him with.  In his infinite wisdom, he decides anonymous sexual encounters are what are needed to reprogram his brain.  Nothing works out the way he planned and John helps.  Or tries to anyway.  Mycroft is Mycroft, very protective and, in his own way, helpful.   Hopeful ending but not tied in a straight forward bow.  This is a story about friendship, recovery and love.





	Let Me In

**Author's Note:**

> There is a rape scene at the very beginning, please be aware. I don't think it's very graphic or violent but it is rape. If this triggers you, please do not read it. My reason for reading and writing fics like this has to do with the recovery. I do not focus on the act of rape itself, I think how it is dealt with is more important. The police report, the exam, the follow up care, the dealing with overwhelming feelings, the vulnerability, the connections to to loved ones that are either pushed away or grow stronger. 
> 
> This takes place sometime vaguely after Season 4, after Mary and Rosie. This story was started about 3 years ago when we all had no idea if Rosie was actually going to be a character in the show and i did not feel the need to add her. Mary and child are mentioned but that's about all we see of them in this story. 
> 
> Thanks to snogandgrope for the beta read. I appreciate the help!

 

 

 

“Just relax and let me in, okay?” 

The cloying smell of alcohol and sweat made his stomach churn.  Perhaps they shouldn’t have met for drinks first.  Alcohol and sweat and hands.  It was suddenly too much.  This was what he had asked for but this wasn’t what he was looking for.  This wasn’t right. 

His heart rate thundered too rapidly in his chest for all the wrong reasons.  Beads of sweat collected on his brow.  Respirations too quick, too shallow.  He knew the familiar burn of panic in his chest.  Sherlock tensed now that the pinnacle of the event had arrived.  “I … could you stop, please?”  ‘ _Calm, remain calm_.  _This is not Serbia_ ,’ Sherlock reminded himself.   Remembering the calming techniques he found online, he kept his eyes open and named three things in the room.  ‘ _This is not Serbia.  Stay in the room_ ,’ he told himself once again.  _‘Floor lamp … bedspread, burgundy with big flowers …’_   A blunt pressure on his testicles and perineum brought his attention away from his calming technique and he felt the panic rise again.  He placed a hand on the man’s chest above him and gave a push which really didn’t move him whatsoever.  He had no leverage himself, his legs bent, knees way out to the sides, trapped in the crook of the elbows of his date’s strong arms, his feet dangling up by the other man’s shoulders. 

His bed partner snorted in derision.  “Get serious, mate.”  He pushed forward but the slickened condom-covered cock slipped downward missing its mark. 

Sherlock winced not only at the prodding to such a sensitive area, but Mike/Mark, whatever his name was, had pushed down on Sherlock’s knees, bearing him more openly and crushing his legs to his own chest.  Breathing at all was a challenge.  _Calm,_ he reminded himself again.  “I realize this may not be the most … opportune time to end the proceedings, but …”

“Opportune?” Mark, or was it Mike (Sherlock didn’t know or care) “Don’t be daft.  You’re just nervous.  You said you hadn’t done this in a while. Take a deep breath and stop thinking so much.”  Sherlock bucked his hips to dislodge the guy but that obviously just made the bigger man angry.  Sherlock was manhandled onto his stomach in a moment and completely pinned to the mattress. 

“Humph …No, I’m not … not this position.” Sherlock grunted and moaned in misery as the burly man laid himself on top of him, his cock sliding between Sherlock’s cheeks.  The panic began to multiply.  _Reason with him._   “M ..Mark?”

“Mike!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  50/50 shot and he got it wrong which wouldn’t help his case in the slightest.  He gave a pull at his limbs.  He flailed about uselessly for a moment.  Mike’s grip was like iron, his full weight holding Sherlock down, a strong forearm across his shoulders, pinning him, pushing him down into the mattress.  _Do not panic!_ Sherlock chanted in his head.  “Sorry.  Mike.  It’s not anything to do with you, it’s just that …”

“Shut it!” 

Sherlock felt him lining his cock up once more which made him buck sideways again to dislodge Mike’s efforts.  “I said STOP!”  When Mike showed no signs of hearing Sherlock or stopping his efforts, Sherlock grabbed the man’s forearm and bit down as hard as he could. 

“Son of a bitch!!  You little arsehole!!” 

His efforts earned him a blow to the head with something hard.  He heard a ringing in his ears and thought it might have been the bottle of lube that Mike knocked him with.  Suddenly there was a burning, suffocating pain that took his breath away.  He may have let a scream go unbidden as he finally slumped into the mattress and waited.

“Fucking tease.”  There was no finesse, no technique.  Just one long, hard thrust in and then out and repeat.  Repeatedly.  “That’s it.  It’s already in, just go with it now.” Mike talked with a gravelly, disgusting tone directly into Sherlock’s ear, full body resting on top of Sherlock, arms snaked around his head, holding him in place. 

This was sickeningly familiar. Too many memories flooded forward, too many limbs in the bed unaccounted for, too many familiar smells, unappreciated touches, groping, apprehension that were not, one bit, making him forget.  That was what this was supposed to be about.  Forgetting. 

Suddenly Sherlock felt the cold concrete beneath his naked form, the dampness in the air.   Babbles made in the throws of this barbaric coupling turned to Serbian and the man above him, holding him down while he felt the drag of every single inch of his cock enter Sherlock and pull back out over and over again, was no longer the man he met in a bar in London, but the disgusting torturer he had spent an eternity in hell with. 

 

 

Yes, Mycroft had eventually “waded in” in Serbia, but he had already spent months in perdition and they had performed every type of torture known to man, he was sure of that, being the recipient of them all.  Repeated sexual assault was the least of it.  There had even been times he would rather have been raped again than endure the horrific beatings, waterboarding, and creative uses with sharp instruments.  He remembered having to bite his lip to stop himself from begging for them to just fuck him and be done, just for a while.  Fuck him or kill him.  He hadn’t cared which.

The quiet made him remember.  Spending time in his own head space made him remember.  An overheard sexual innuendo made him remember.  Any case involving any type of crime of passion made him remember.  Hell, just about any anything regarding sex in any way, made him remember.  Not every time, not every moment, but suddenly, something, some glimpse of an olive green military jacket or the smell of semen or something set him off.  It was always something.  Damp smells and men with scruffy beards did the trick as well.  It wasn’t often he would be called to a case in a damp cellar so the smells were easier to avoid than being involved in cases directly related to sex.  Love, passion, sex, jealousy were high motivators for crime.  It made being a consulting detective much more difficult since his return. 

He had been home for well over a year and he had thought that being entrenched into his normal atmosphere would make the memories fade.  But the quiet, even if those moments were few, still brought forth a brick wall of memories that seemingly did their best to slam him up against it.  Hard as he tried, he could not delete what had happened there.  He tried locking it all up into a room at the far end of his mind palace, closing the door, putting bars and locks on the door.  Then he made the door disappear as though it were magical vanishing room.  When it kept appearing, bringing with it the sweaty, filthy, lewd, obscene men who had assaulted him, pounding on the door, whistling offensively at him, he then pushed the entire room completely away from the Mind Palace, completely detached it so it could no longer bother him.  It lasted for a while, especially when he had a case or he had John to distract him. 

John.  John could never know.  Never. 

He tried burning down the room in his mind palace, he tried to focus more on the work, keep the pervading thoughts at bay.  The “Mary” year had provided something of a distraction for a while--the wedding, working with John occasionally. Being shot was definitely distracting as was shooting Magnussen.  That had filled his head with so many nightmares…or maybe dreams, of shooting his many Serbian perpetrators just exactly so.  The satisfaction of seeing that in his head, the look of complete shock on their grimy faces, the loud pop, the give of tissue--blood and bone, the body slack and useless dropping to the ground, had been grand even if short-lived.  Soon the reality of what had and had not happened would take over once more. 

He needed something else to chase it away. 

His first thought had been John.  John was his rock, his light.  If the fall hadn’t happened, Sherlock thought they would probably already be together.  It was apparent to Sherlock that John was indeed attracted to Sherlock despite his insistence on not being gay.  Being gay was just one of those labels Sherlock didn’t believe in.  The sexuality scale was vast and labels were ignorant.  If he gave John enough time, he would realize that himself. 

That, of course, was his thought before the fall, before Serbia.  Sherlock would never sentence John to an attempted romantic entanglement with him now.  He had been damaged beyond repair.  How could he possibly subject him to the broken, tarnished person he was now?  He had questioned himself and his capabilities of maintaining a gratifying relationship before he went away, but now he had deemed himself utterly incapable of it. 

John moving back into Baker Street again after Mary had fled with the baby, had lulled the roar quite a bit.  But John insisted on working at the surgery and serial murders were begrudgingly few.   It wasn’t enough. 

 

The Lonely Hearts ad had taken more effort then he would have imagined.  He had to take a picture of himself to send to prospective clients … well, people … eh, dates?  Deciding that his face was too recognizable, he took a picture in the mirror of his shirtless chest, one flexed bicep and unfastened trousers showing a hint of striped red and black pants.  He had photo shopped some of the more disturbing scars out of the picture but he was satisfied with the results.  Hiding scars might possibly be construed as deceiving, but he wasn’t trying to enter into a relationship after all.  He simply needed sexual release that had a more gratifying ending for himself and also he wanted for his own rape to not be the only database of practical sexual knowledge he had.  A dark room or keeping his shirt on during intercourse might be necessary, but he had a feeling whoever he was going to have sex with, would not mind.  After a week of the online ad, he had more than a few responses, as a matter of fact; the sheer number of responses was a bit dizzying. 

His selections were dwindled down first based on physical appearance.  No scruffy beards as was the fashion.  No potential sexual partner could remind him of John.  All sandy-blondes were summarily dismissed before reading their profiles or their ‘hello’ responses to his ad.  Then he went through height, eye color and professions.  Just to make sure, he also rid himself of anyone in the medical field at all.  He also deleted a malpractice attorney just in case.  One responder signed his real name as “John” and was then deleted as well. 

Mike, Frances and Albert were the only ones left.  Albert had to cancel their first meet because he forgot about his daughter’s dance recital.  Sherlock crossed him off the list as well.  Not that Sherlock was looking for a long-term relationship, but the last thing he wanted to talk about with someone was nappies and ex-wives. 

Frances was good-looking, charming, had deep brown eyes and wavy brown hair.  Sherlock could deduce from across the room that he was single, never married, no children, openly gay, successful, lived by himself and had one small dog.  He let himself smile when they first made eye contact, but then the man smiled and came in for a casual hug and kiss to Sherlock’s cheek.  That was when Sherlock first got the whiff of the appalling halitosis.  Dreadful, unacceptable. 

Mike was a bouncer at one of London’s premier nightclubs.  It was easy to sneak out of the flat at 3am on a weeknight to meet him at the club.  John wouldn’t even notice.  He’d wake up and go to work not even realizing that Sherlock wasn’t asleep in his room with the door closed. 

Their meeting hadn’t set off any alarms in Sherlock’s brain.  He had deduced Mike’s eating, sleeping and drinking habit, no drugs, no smoking.  Very physically fit with intense workout habits.  He had a brother who he shared a flat with, parents both deceased, no children, no pets. He was not outwardly gay, but didn’t seem to be hiding it either.  The meeting had been fine.  They’d talked at one of the empty tables in the nightclub for a short time while the clean-up crew worked around them before Sherlock suggested going to a hotel.  Sherlock deduced that Mike had a few mixed drinks during the night (probably nervous, his coworkers covered for him) and Sherlock would rather consummate the arrangement before Mike would be alcohol-relatedly unable to perform. 

The hotel was decent, not filthy, but it still put Sherlock on edge.  He didn’t feel any sort of attraction to Mark or was it Mike?  He had deleted it already knowing he was merely a means to an end.  He would never see this man again.   If it had been up to Sherlock, a simple message saying “interested in casual sex only” with a place and a time to meet would have been perfect.  The chance to deduce if a person was, in fact, a serial killer or not, he supposed, was helpful though. 

He was aesthetically pleasing, but there was no chemical reaction in his brain to make Sherlock feel the necessary physical response one needed to make this more pleasurable.  Sherlock’s date rid himself of his jacket and his shirt quickly then turned to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around his waist. 

“hhhmph,” Sherlock was a bit taken aback but decided that the man’s pectoral muscles were well-formed and pleasing enough to possibly start him off in the right direction.  He allowed his coat to be slipped off his shoulders but cringed when it was left in a heap on the floor.  Mike/Mark was looking at him expectantly and brought his face in closer, obviously for a kiss.  On the mouth.  Sherlock put his hand on Mike’s chest and gave a wan smile.  “Sorry, so sorry…it’s just …”  he squirmed out of M’s hold and picked up his coat.  “I know, I just have to…” he turned and waved in the general direction of the small closet and hung up the Belstaff. 

“S’okay.  You’re a finicky sort of bloke aren’t you?” 

“Finicky?  I don’t think so, no.”

“Well, now that you’ve saved your lovely coat, why don’t you come back over here and let’s have a bit of a grind, shall we?” 

“Ah,” Sherlock thought for a moment he could just leave but thought again about the reason he was here, “yes, of course.”  Sherlock nodded and proceeded slowly toward Mike or was it Matt?  Something with an M, definitely. 

“Alright?” 

“Yes … yes, I … um… yes, sorry, just thinking a bit too much, I suppose.” 

M wrapped his arms around Sherlock once more and pulled him tightly into his chest.   “How about we finish what we started?” 

Sherlock nodded shortly and returned to the exact same position he was in before he picked up his coat, patting the well-developed pectoral muscles once more.  “I believe this is where we started.” 

M smiled.  “I believe you are correct.” 

Sherlock had to admire the naked chest before him.  It was perfectly sculpted.  The man had obviously worked hard to attain it, a necessity for his job. He found himself comparing his experience with _… was it Marcus, maybe_.. thus far.  He had never had an opportunity to touch another man’s nude form.  The men in Serbia most certainly did not take any time to undress, there was no fondling or admiring, of course. 

He had to stop thinking about Serbia.  Having his mind firmly planted on that particular aspect of his life would certainly not get him very far in his plan to turn this night, this experience, into what he thinks about when his mind reaches for sexual thoughts, when a case steers him toward sexual relationships, when he thinks about John which invariably leads to attempted self-release which starts off with the pictures of lovely, wonderful, beacon-of-light John he has stored in his Mind Palace, but then turns horrifically into that fucking tormenting room with the Serbian fuck-wits that he wants to shoot in the head, one by one. 

Sherlock is convinced that he cannot override the Serbia memories with John, though he has tried, because Serbia is real.  It happened.  He has fantasized about being with John but that is never going to happen in reality.  Merlin/Mercutio is his reality right now.  It’s just sex, he convinces himself.  He’s not a blushing virgin so what difference does it make who he has it with as long as it overrides … just overrides. 

“There you go again.  You’re thinking too much.”  M smiles. 

“Sorry.”  Sherlock looked apologetic and steeled himself, locking into a course of events to make himself into who he needed to be.  He lifted his hand, unsure but settled, and placed it firmly on M’s chest once more.  It kind of felt like he was grabbing a breast but then Mikah/Marcus flexed and he was pretty sure women’s breasts didn’t do that.  “Oh, that’s … uh … good.”

M laughed, “glad you like it.”  He moved in to kiss Sherlock again and this time they did connect, lips parted, tongues touched and Sherlock felt warmth.  The next few minutes were a blur of activity and the next thing Sherlock knew, he was naked beneath a man and wished he wasn’t. 

 

 

Sherlock woke to an annoying yet familiar buzzing in his ear and the sight of way too much light streaming through an unfamiliar window. 

“Sherlock.  Wake up, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock blearily and begrudgingly opened one eye slightly.  Only enough to confirm his suspicions of Mycroft being in the room and then closed it again, sighing heavily. 

“He obviously is too concussed to respond.  Wrap him up and carry him down to the car.”

Sherlock sprang upright pulling the covers up to his chin as he went.  The room contained Anthea as well as two other agents in his brother’s employ.  He turned to address the agent closest to him bending down to follow Mycroft’s order.  “Don’t even think about it or I will make sure your wife is aware of your early morning donut habit despite being on a strict low carbohydrate diet.  Chocolate cream as well as maple.  Must have been a particularly difficult loss with your bet on the horses this morning, hmm?” 

The man stood, stunned and blundered something vaguely apologetic and Mycroft rolled his eyes and dismissed them all from the room. 

“Mycroft, what in the hell are you doing here?”  Sherlock’s skin itched, he was aware of a particular kind of soreness and dampness.  His instincts were to get himself to his feet and dressed in the presence of his overbearing brother, but he knew he needed privacy to assess the situation fully before he gave Mycroft anything else to deduce. 

“I could ask you the same, brother mine, but I am already aware.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“I know you went out at 2:43 this morning to meet one, Michael Samuel Broslin, age 32 at the nightclub, Blue Neon.” 

_Mike! Yes, Mike, that was his name._

“You drank one glass of white wine and he consumed four gin and tonics during the course of the evening.  You left at precisely 3:41 and came here.  He left at 5:22.  Not difficult to deduce what happened the one hour and thirty-three minutes between.”

“Yes, Mycroft, brilliant deduction.  I had sex.”

Mycroft tilted his head slightly and gave Sherlock a pitying look.  It made Sherlock want to scratch his eyes out.  “You’ll need medical attention.”

“I’m fine.”  Sherlock gritted his teeth.  He knew.  Of course Mycroft knew.  “Go and pester some unsuspecting third world nation.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion, Sherlock.  He caused a tear.  Judging by the amount of blood, I would wager a small one, but you need to be seen.  I have arranged for a discreet physician to meet us at the Diogenes Club.  There is a small room set up.”

“Fuck.”  Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Is Mike dead?”

Mycroft jutted out his chin.  “No.  Not at the moment.”

“It wasn’t his fault.  Just … just leave it.” 

“Sherlock … I cannot …”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”  Sherlock faced his brother, jaw set, expression stern. 

Mycroft nodded once.  “I’ll wait in the hall for you to gather yourself.  You have three minutes to join me.  Of course, a shower isn’t possible at this time, I’m sure you are aware.”  Mycroft moved closer to the door, umbrella draped over his forearm.  He paused at the door.  “There is an agent in the room above, below and on each side of this room.  Do not try to run off.” 

“Oh for God’s sake, Mycroft!  I am fine!”

Mycroft gave an indulgent smile.  “Of course you are.  Of that I have no doubt,” and promptly left the room. 

 

Sherlock sat for a few seconds taking in his surroundings and assessing his own state of wellness.  By the light through the window he knew it had gone past ten.  He wondered for a moment why his brother hadn’t been in his hotel room by six then, but dismissed the thought.  Obviously he had to deal with more internationally pressing issues before his people apprised him of his baby brother’s whereabouts. 

Moving was a delicate issue.  He could see the state of the sheets and felt a fresh flow of wetness below when he moved.  All thoughts of attempting to flee the scene were thwarted.  He did need to have that fixed lest John find out and that just would not do at all.  John would be home by 4:30.  He had approximately five hours to have this dealt with and still have time to get home, burn his clothes and assemble some sort of experiment in the kitchen John would believe he had been working on all day.  He would be sore but he was convinced he’d be able to hide that from John.   John wasn’t the most observant although he was getting better at that thanks to his own influence on him. 

He was able to make it to the loo.  A bit stiff, but he made it without too much cause for concern.  His backside hurt, obviously and his head had a lump but no bleeding.  A massive headache but he didn’t feel like he was concussed.  His skin itched.  All he wanted was a good shower to rinse off the remnants of last night and forget about the entire thing.  He stared longingly at the shower.  To hell with Mycroft and his three bloody minutes.  He wasn’t concerned about preserving evidence.  He had no intention of filing this incident with The Yard.  The thought of giving his statement to Donovan or Lestrade made his stomach churn once more.  No, that was not happening. 

 

 

The ride had been blessedly silent, Mycroft still fuming about the shower he had taken. 

Sherlock walked purposefully into a back entrance to the club and then into Mycroft’s own inner sanctum.  No limping, no change in gait, just more slowly.  He’d been to this office before, most of the time after Mycroft’s goons had kidnapped him but it was also where they had plotted Sherlock’s own death and disappearance. 

Lowering himself deliberately into the leather chair, Sherlock made sure not to wince in the presence of his brother.  A show of weakness would make Mycroft all the more likely to project his anger onto … _oh what was his damn name?_  He had spent some time during his shower cleaning out his mind palace and might have deleted the name once more.  Anyway, he didn’t wish to aggravate Mycroft or add to his own guilt.  It was also good practice for when he went home and had to pretend there was nothing amiss in front of John.  If he could fool Mycroft, he could definitely fool John. 

“Michael Brasnon is not deceased at the moment but I think he might rather be very shortly.  Stop worrying about protecting that beast and tell me the purpose of such a liason.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said beseechingly.  “Please don’t …”

“I’m not asking your permission, Sherlock.”

“I have a say in the matter, Mycroft.  I’m certain you are abusing your power in order to fight your little brother’s battles and I do not condone nor do I appreciate your interference.”

“I’m not asking you to appreciate it.  It’s just a matter that has to be dealt with.”

“Please, Mycroft.  I’m asking you, begging you not to do this.  It was my fault for God’s s …”

“STOP!”  Mycroft sighed heavily, blinked slowly.  “Do NOT ask me this, Sherlock.  Don’t.”  Mycroft finally sat in his chair behind the grand oak desk and straightened out his waistcoat and then his jacket before taking a deliberate breath.  “Sherlock, I have done a great many things with the power that my position affords me.  Some things massively great in the grand scheme, some more mildly so but with consequences that begot larger, more influential results.  Some actions have occurred that are more trivial in nature but always with the best of intensions toward the greater good.  Always that thought in mind, Sherlock.  Always the greater good.”  He took a deep breath before continuing.  “This power that you know I have has started and won wars, saved entire political parties and races of people.  It has taken lives and stabilized whole economies all in the name of the greater good, God and country.  It is not often that I indulge my own selfish tendencies, but if there is one thing I am selfish about it’s that my power, my influence WILL  keep my family, YOU, safe.  If there is anyone who threatens that fact, the amount of devastation released upon that entity will be crippling.  You have no control over that fact.  I insist upon it, I absolutely demand it and it is not up to you.  Is that understood.”  That was not a question. 

Sherlock didn’t hear Mycroft become vocally protective of him very often.  He thought that the last time was probably when Sherlock was in sixth form and was being harassed by bullies.  He knew peripherally Serbia was still dealing with the crippling blow from his treatment in their custody, but that was nothing Mycroft was verbal about.

Sherlock sighed.  “He didn’t know me, not my name.  He didn’t know I was your brother.  He doesn’t deserve to be tossed into the boot of a car at gunpoint and then a shallow grave.  He was drunk and he … miscalculated.” 

“Miscalculated?  He sexually assaulted you.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“I’m sorry?”  Mycroft tensed his jaw and his posture. 

Sherlock slumped in his chair.  “I’ve been se … assaulted and that wasn’t the same thing.”

Mycroft sighed.  “Oh, Sherlock.  Just because one form of rape was less torturous than the other doesn’t make it any less of one.”

This was getting tiresome.  Why he felt any compunction to plead for M M … this man, was beyond his own reasoning but Mycroft’s form of punishment did seem ridiculous and entirely unnecessary.  “I was in the room voluntarily.  I arranged for the room myself.  I sought him out and went to the room for the purpose of having sex.”

“Did you or did you not tell him to stop?”

Sherlock sighed dramatically and grasped the arm rests of the chair clearly annoyed.  “Where is this discreet physician you ordered?  I want to be home before John comes home from work and have some time to burn my clothes beforehand.”

“Yes, of course.  Cover up all evidence from your doctor, acting normal, hiding your pain.  Everything status quo.”  Mycroft sounded annoyed but sighed and moved on.  “No need.  There are extra clothes in the exam room for when you’re finished.  I’ll have those burned myself.” 

Sherlock raised a suspicious eyebrow.  “I do not want you to tell John.”

“You won’t have to worry about that.” 

As if on que, there was a brief knock before Anthea let John into the room carrying his medical bag. 

 _‘What the ever loving fuck was going on?_ ’  Sherlock wanted to scream.  Why was John here?  John could not be here. 

“Mycroft!”  Sherlock gritted his teeth and spoke tersely. 

“Hello,” John said amiably taking in the brothers.  “Sherlock?  Didn’t expect you here.  Were you on this case?  Your brother called me to have a look at the poor girl although I wish you would’ve called in a female physician.  Think she might be more comfortable with one.”

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face, the anger build in his chest _.  John is going to know within the next five seconds._   He couldn’t bear witness to the realization in his friend’s eyes.  Sherlock looked away, squeezed his eyes closed, gripped the armrests more firmly and quietly cursed his brother.  He didn’t see it but he heard it.  John asking again where the patient was that he was called over to see.  Mycroft not answering him for a moment and finally telling John that Sherlock was not consulting on the case at all and that he never said the victim was a “she”.  Sherlock heard the nervous clearing of the throat and knew John also shifted his weight on his feet, he could feel John’s gaze bore into him, realization dawning.

John knew. 

Sherlock couldn’t stop him from knowing.  His life was never going to be the same again. 

Sherlock waited for his friend to speak, be outraged and demand retribution, bargain for this to have not happened to his ‘best mate’ and ask more details about the circumstances leading up to the assault and then finally approach him and talk to him like an infant in distress.  He could see it all playing out in his head like he had seen it so many other times with so many other people.  John did none of that. 

“Mycroft, you are a complete and utter cock!”  John yelled.

Sherlock opened his eyes and offered a surprised “what?” at the same time Mycroft said “I’m sorry?” 

John didn’t make them wait any further for the explanation for his comment.  “Look at him,” he said gesturing toward Sherlock, “look at your brother for fuck sake and deduce,” he said with air quotes, “whether or not he wanted me to know about this.”

“I thought it in his best interest for you to know all of it for the sake …”

“Do you even hear yourself?  You thought.  You thought, after what he’s already been through, that you should take away his own power to decide who knows and when or even IF I know?”  He shifted his weight and glared at Mycroft.  “Brilliant that is.” He pointed a finger at the most powerful man in London and flat out told him to fuck right off.  “Fuck you and your good intentions, Mycroft.”  He turned toward Sherlock with a decidedly gentler look in his eyes, a smile that took more effort to manage on his face.  “Would you like to take a ride over the surgery and I can have Sarah take a look at you? Or I can call her here if you’d rather.”

“No.”  Sherlock was still a bit taken aback from John’s diatribe toward his brother.  John never ceased to surprise Sherlock, but after feeling a bit rustled around by Mycroft, he thought John was bloody brilliant and felt himself feel more solidified in their friendship if that was even possible, and it was still a bit jostling.  “No.  As you know, I didn’t want you to know at all, but now that you do…” Sherlock, understanding how that sounded, looked regretful for blurting out that statement and tried to explain.  “Not that I don’t trust you, John, I … “

“Of course not.  I didn’t take it that way.  No worries about me, Sherlock.  None of that.  Let’s get you sorted and then we can work out the rest in your own time.  All right?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Do you want to stay here or go down to the surgery?”

“Can we just go home?”  He knew it was a long shot, but he suddenly felt very tired and ready for familiar surroundings. 

“Afraid not, Sherlock.  I need more equipment than what we have at the flat.”

Sherlock nodded and looked at his shoes.  “I’d rather do this sooner and get back to Baker Street.”  Sherlock looked up and took in John’s posture, stiff, guarded and he very decidedly positioned himself between Sherlock and Mycroft.  Sherlock could see that John had a definite urge for physical contact, probably in the form of a hug, but kept himself deliberately at length possibly due to a perception that Sherlock might not want physical contact from anyone at the moment but also that John would not initiate physical contact between himself and Sherlock in front of Mycroft at this time because Mycroft would consider it a weakness and he knew the last thing Sherlock needed was to feel weakened in front of his brother.  A hug from John did sound nice though.  Of course, John might also be projecting a need for physical contact in the form of a punch to Mycroft’s buttinski face.  Sometimes he was hard to read.

“Here it is then,” he turned toward Mycroft who had been silent since being told off by John. “Where is the exam room and do I have a kit to work with?”

Mycroft gestured toward the door, “this way but you won’t need a data collection kit.  Sherlock decided to take a shower and rinse away any evidence that might be collected from his person.”

John looked briefly surprised but shook it off just as quickly and nodded without scolding Sherlock even though he very much looked like he wanted to.  Again, probably for the benefit of not making Sherlock feel weakened in front of Mycroft.

“There better not be any microphones or cameras in there either.”

Mycroft spend the entire walk assuring John there were no such devices and then assured him once more inside the sterile, white, Spartan room that there were actually no places to hide such things. 

 

John closed the door after Mycroft left and shifted his weight a few times obviously trying to think of something to say.  He looked up toward Sherlock and opened his mouth, sighed and closed it again.  Sherlock shrugged and pulled his shirt from his trousers, beginning to move forward with the task at hand. 

John took a step closer but seemed to think that was a poor decision and stepped back once again. 

“I’m not afraid of you, John.”

“Oh, good.  Yeah, I wasn’t sure,” a tight smile and a nod.

“I see that.  I have no anxiety about you being in my proximity.  If you have no objections, I’d rather complete,” he waved his hand toward the exam table, “this and be done with it.  There is no evidence to collect so just an assessment of … my injury should suffice.” Sherlock began to work at his belt but found his hands insufferably shaking and completely not useful at all. 

John put his hand on top of Sherlock’s to still his efforts.  “Just have a seat for a second, all right?” John motioned for the other chair in the room instead of the exam table.

Sherlock nodded and sat.  John sat on a stool facing him.  

“So,” John said genially, “would you like to tell me what happened?”

Sherlock shrugged, “guess it got a bit … rough last night.”

John lifted an eyebrow.  “You were raped.”

“No, I wasn’t!  Why does everyone insist on that?  I’ve been… I was not raped last night.”  Sherlock sighed. 

“You’ve been what then?”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

John sighed and asked, “did you want to have sex with your … um, date? Last night?”

“Yes.  And then no.  I didn’t.  I’d decided to and then changed my mind.”

“Did you let him know that you’d changed your mind?”

“Of course.”

“So, you did, in fact, tell him no?”

“Yes, but that was well into the … proceedings.”

“I don’t give a damn, Sherlock.  When you say stop, things should stop, right then, right there, without question.  Period.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “You weren’t there.”

“I don’t need to have been.  You said stop.  He didn’t.  That is called rape, Sherlock.”  John sighed at his flatmate’s disapproval of the term.  “Why do you think him getting off is so much more important than you having a choice in participation?” 

“He was drunk.  Probably not consciously aware of the ramifications of his actions.  I lead him into the circumstances.  I don’t think he was a particularly violent man.  I think he was … not himself.”

“Oh you know him that well, do you?  How long had you been dating?”

“About an hour,” Sherlock mumbled. 

“I’m sorry?  What was that?”

“About an hour.” 

John looked completely flabbergasted.  “I thought … well, it doesn’t matter, I suppose.”  John shook his head.

“What doesn’t matter?”

John shrugged, “I guess I just didn’t think you … were like that.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  “Like what?  Easy?  Willing to take it up the arse for any willing bloke who’ll buy me a drink?”

“NO!”  John shook his head.  “No, absolutely not.  That’s not what I meant at all.”  John moved in closer and placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm.  “Listen,”  when he knew he had Sherlock’s attention and eye contact, John continued.  “Sherlock, you and I have been best friends for a long time, I’ve lived with you and I thought I knew you and your habits pretty well.  I’m saying that I didn’t think you were into sex, of any form, at all.  I’m the last person to judge you, mate.  My own personal history aside, you’re my friend and I wouldn’t do that.  Understand?” 

Sherlock blinked slowly and nodded. 

“Good.”  John relaxed back into his chair.  Sherlock missed the touch the moment it was gone.  “So, what on earth is your overbearing, big brother doing?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in question.

“Well, yes, obviously you need medical attention, but there is a reason he sent for me specifically even though you very vehemently insisted I not be told about this. I’m sure he can get top line medical treatment for you at the snap of his finger. He can be a complete and utter cock, but I don’t see him going against you on this for no reason.”

“Ah, that.”  Sherlock nodded his head. 

“Yeah, that.” 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.  He could, he was sure, spin some lie and sweep everything under the rug, all status quo and dandy again for the inhabitants of Baker Street, but he was sure John new something was amiss.  John worked with him, knew him and knew how strange he’d been acting recently at crime scenes.  He was concocting some convoluted story in his head, rapid speed, but then inhaled deeply and blurted, “PTSD”. 

“PTSD?” John wrinkled his brow.  “What about it?”  As a doctor and as a patient diagnosed with this particular acronym, he was fully aware of what Post-traumatic Stress Disorder was, but he obviously didn’t understand what that had to do with Sherlock at the moment.

“I … have it.”

“Okay.  A moment ago you insisted you weren’t even raped …”

“No, not from … I’ve been … in this position before.”

John audibly swallowed and then cleared his throat, looking at the floor.  He cleared his throat a few more times and finally looked back at Sherlock.  “When was this?” 

“While I was… away.”

“I see.” 

Sherlock noticed tears welling in John’s eyes while he tried to maintain stoicism.  The knowledge visibly tore John apart and Sherlock was laying witness to this.  “John, I’m sorry … I …”

“No, don’t … don’t apologize to me Sherlock.”  John sniffed and shook his head trying to form some semblance of control.  “I … I would have preferred to know, but I’m not going to make you feel guilty about not telling me sooner.  I …”  John straightened himself upright and nodded “Right, well, I won’t dwell on that right now.  At what point did this happen while you were … away?”

“There in the end.  Mycroft brought me directly home after getting me out.”

“What was the extent?”  John was trying to keep his composure by sticking with clinical questions.

“The extent?”

“Yes, I mean, you said Mycroft got you out.  Got you out of what?  Were you being held somewhere?”

“Yes.”  Sherlock suddenly found the floor very interesting to look at.  “I was held in a Serbian prison.”

John audibly gasped.  “Jeezus fucking … Oh my God!”  John sat forward in his chair resting his elbows on his knees.  He rubbed his eyes having not been able to stop the few tears from flowing before he regained his composure, sniffed a few times and sat up.  “So, you were tortured?”

“Yes.” 

John put a finger to the side of his face and leaned back.  “Yes,” he paused briefly “you were tortured and raped in a Serbian prison?”

“Yes, John.” 

“For how long?”

“It wasn’t long, John… it wasn’t …”

“For how long.  Just tell me.”

“Eight weeks.”

John couldn’t hold it together anymore and let his tears fall quietly.  Sherlock knew his friend would rather scream and beat something to oblivion rather than sit there and quietly take in this news.  He knew John would go to the ends of the earth to find justice for Sherlock and he knew that John knew he could do nothing of the sort while they were sitting in the tiny, sterile room for the reasons they were sitting there having this conversation instead of having it at Baker Street.  He wouldn’t burden Sherlock with the force of his rage at the moment.  So he waited and he eventually calmed himself enough to speak again.

 

“So you had no sooner been raped and tortured in a Serbian prison for eight weeks, been rescued and then found me before I beat the living hell out of you?”  John stood, pacing the floor.  “Jeezus fucking Christ, Sherlock.  And you … you let me just pummel you even though … fuck.”  John took a few deep breaths.  “God, I’m so fucking sorry, Sherlock.”

“John, you didn’t know.”

John nodded minutely.  “What else?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What else happened?  What else did they do to you?”

“John, I don’t …”

“You don’t have to tell me, of course you don’t.  I’m asking if you will.”

“There were various forms of torture, least of all were the sexual forms.  I’ll tell you in as much detail as you would like to hear, but not now, not here.”

John nodded.  He sat back down slowly.  “So you have PTSD.  Oh my God, Sherlock, you …,”  he pinched the bridge of his nose, “you didn’t want to take on that serial rapist case last week.  I was so mad you wouldn’t help.  You did it even though … fucking Christ!  You had a flashback that day.  You said you’d fell and got winded when Greg and I caught up with you, but that wasn’t it was it?”

“No.”  Sherlock said sheepishly. 

“God, Sherlock, I could have helped … jeezus I, I don’t know.  I could have … I would have stopped pushing it on you.”

“John, a rapist is off the streets.  You did the right thing.”

“At the cost of your sanity!”  John shook his head. 

“Well, my sanity is something I value greatly which is why I’ve taken steps to preserve it.”

“Oh-kay,” John drawled.  “Do these steps have something to do with why this happened to you today?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “I suppose, in a way.” 

John nodded and sat forward in his chair waiting for the rest of the story. 

“That was a troublesome case, but they all are, John.  Every case that has anything to do with love or lust or jealousy, which is 90% of the time, it is difficult and I can expect at least 70% of the time to be afflicted with some sort of instantaneous recall of past events.  I have practiced pulling myself out of them, but it is becoming more and more difficult depending on the severity.  During those times, when it was the subject matter of sex that brought them on, I hypothesized that my brain, since it had no other memories of a sexual nature, automatically defaulted to the only memory it had bringing on the episodes.  I thought, if I could replace my only sexual experience with a more … pleasant recollection, then I could reprogram my mind palace to go to the new experience instead of where I keep the … other memories.” 

John sighed and scrubbed his hand through his hair leaning back and so obviously heartsick for his friend.  “There are just so many things I want to say right now, I don’t know where to start.”  He sat up straight in his chair.  “First of all, that’s not how PTSD works.  You say the flashbacks come on during any type of sexual case?”

“Not just during cases.  All the time.  Well, a lot.  It doesn’t have to be case-related.”

“Okay.  Right.  So when you’re reminded of sex at all, these flashbacks come at you?”

“Yes.  Not all the time.  But, yes.”

“The PTSD part of that is that your brain isn’t going to choose a more pleasant memory to flash back to.  It picks the memory causing the PTSD in the first place.  You don’t get to tell it which one to go to.”

“I have experience with programming my brain to remember and delete many things.  I’m certain that the only reason I cannot delete … Serbia,” Sherlock motioned with his hand dismissively, “is because I have nothing to replace it with.  I’ve tried to fill it with … other things but it keeps coming back.” 

“So, you sought out a stranger to give you this more pleasant experience so you could reprogram your brain and then he ended up hurting you too.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock nodded.  “Yes.  I know that I have proven that I am able to hold my own in physical altercations, I did try to loosen his grip, but I’m afraid he had the upper hand … as it were … I should have done …”

“Christ.  Sherlock no.  Absolutely not.  None of it, not one bit of this is because you should have or could have done anything else differently.”  John sighed once more.  “Look, for some reason, you’re not blaming him, who, by the way is the only person at fault here, but you’re damn sure not going to blame yourself.”  John made sure he had eye contact with Sherlock.  “None of it happened because you didn’t fight hard enough or that you weren’t manly enough.  None of it, Sherlock.  It happened because he didn’t take no for an answer.  Full stop.” 

Sherlock gave a small, tight-lipped smile and nodded. 

“Do you know that, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John.  Of course.”  Of course, he knew the party line.  When anyone else had been the victim, he did know that.  Of course, he did. 

This wasn’t anyone else thought, was it? 

“I’m going to refer you to Ella.”

“Absolutely not!”  Sherlock was up and out of his chair.  He nearly hissed as the sudden movement caused him pain, but managed to stop himself from making the sound.  John noticed anyway. 

“All right, all right.  Let’s just calm down and get you squared up and home.”

Sherlock paced a few steps then turned back to John and nodded. 

“Okay.”  John stood up and tossed the nearby examination gown onto the table.  “I’m gonna step out.  Change into that and knock on the door when you’re ready.  I’ll give you several seconds to have a seat on the exam table when I hear you knock.”

Sherlock didn’t meet John’s eyes when he nodded in understanding. 

“Sherlock, we can get another doctor if you’d rather.  I mean it, I won’t take offense if you’d want someone you didn’t know.  Strangers bring a sort of anonymity which might be easier.  I’d still be able to be in the room if you would want me for support.   I can ask your brother to find another male physician or a female, whichever you prefer.  I’m here because Mycroft sent for me, but I don’t have …” 

“No, I trust you.”

“Molly Hooper.  You trust her too.  She would definitely do if you’re more comfortable with …”

John was interrupted by Sherlock.  “NO!  No, not Molly.  I’ve imposed on her enough and I think she’d become suicidal if she saw me in this state.”

John nodded.  “I think she’s tougher than that, but you’re right.  She adores you and it would be hard on her.”

“Exactly.  I do actually prefer it be you.  That is, if you don’t mind.  I know you, I trust you.  You’ve examined me before.”  He paced a few more steps back and forth keeping John in his peripheral vision. He thought back to the examination he had endured after Mycroft had taken him out of Serbia.  The elderly, German physician had been anything but gentle or reassuring.  Not that he needed coddling, of course, but the thought of someone so aloof and detached and condescending seeing him without clothing was contemptible.   

“Well, this will be decidedly more personal than our usual, scrapes and concussions.  Plus, you would have called me the moment you could if you really wanted me to help you.”  John stopped and shook his head.  “That’s not to say you should feel guilty that you didn’t call.  Not that I would expect …” 

“It’s true, I didn’t want you to know.  I’m infuriated that Mycroft sent for you for this.  I am livid and betrayed and absolutely incensed about this entire event,” Sherlock gritted his teeth and looked seethingly angry.  He closed his eyes and took some deep breaths.  “But not at you, John.”  Sherlock opened his eyes and sighed.  _Never at you._   “My trust in our friendship, for your ability, has not wavered and since you do, in fact, know, then I might as well have the physician I know and trust.”

John nodded and smiled sheepishly.  “Well now I feel like an ass for having you console me about it.” 

Sherlock smiled “Yes, do quit fishing for compliments when I’m the one about to be arse-naked in that dreadful gown.” 

“Oi!  I’ll be in the hall.”  John grabbed the doorknob.  “One other thing.” 

“Yes?”

“You having PTSD doesn’t explain why Mycroft wanted me to know about this.  He can get the best physicians, therapists, dog therapy or whatever you need at the snap of his fingers.  Why would he think I should be informed?”

“John, now you really are fishing for compliments.”

John looked confused.

“How much therapy or treatment do you think I’ve had since Serbia?”

John shook his head, “none.”

“How well do you think Mycroft believes I am handling it on my own?”  John gave a half quirk of a smile.  “You underestimate the value of your friendship to me and he likes it when the two of you are on the same page.”

John smirked and nodded soberly.  “Take your time.”  He closed the door softly as he left the room. 

 

 

Sherlock took his shirt off first.  Enough time had passed that whatever marks were going to show up had already shown up.  He supposed they were already there during his shower, but he just couldn’t look then.  He had wanted to get the grime off and the thick smells off his skin.  Now that he was undressing and was anticipating that John would see him, he had to know what was there.  Had to see exactly what John would be seeing.  He saw the bruising around his wrists, the finger-shaped bruises in his arms. 

Should he have made another choice of physicians?  Did he really feel so indifferent about John seeing him after he’d had sex?  After he’d had rough sex?  After he’d been … abused?  No, not abused.  Children are abused.  Powerless people are abused.  He wasn’t a child and he was far from powerless.  Assaulted.  He’d been assaulted.  John and Mycroft threw other words at him about the event but he could not let his mind go there.  No.  He was still trying to control his PTSD from Serbia.  He just could not let another r… any other thing sidetrack him on reprogramming his mind palace.  This was a small distraction.  That’s all.

If Mycroft hadn’t butted in with his big head and big nose, Sherlock would have taken the tube to a remote clinic, had his injury dealt with swiftly and he would have been back at Baker Street by now.  Nobody the wiser.  Again, Sherlock grew angrier at the thought of Mycroft and his meddling into his life.  He’s always done that, since he was a child. 

Realizing he’d only gotten as far as taking off his button-down shirt in the last several minutes, Sherlock decided to stop thinking about Mycroft and about Milo/Mario as well.  He would file what he needed to file later. John would start thinking Sherlock had changed his mind after all if he took any more time. 

Swiftly Sherlock rid himself of his shoes, trousers and pants and tossed them on the chair.  Reminded of his scars, he decided to keep his vest on.  They hadn’t turned out to be raised scars, surprisingly enough, but they were there and could be seen as silvery and some redish lines criss-crossing his back.  If John really needed to see more, he could just push it up, he decided.  He looked at the gown disdainfully before he donned the garment and went to the door.  John had said to knock, but he thought that was ridiculous.  It was just John out there in the remote part of the building.  But he would rather John not see him sitting so gingerly and carefully on the exam table so he did decide to knock knowing he then would have time to get himself seated, without witness, before John came in. 

John waited a full 60 seconds, plenty of time for Sherlock to make his way to the table and sit down slowly, and some added time to decide what to do with his arms and legs that didn’t make him look so stupid sitting there in a gown that was way too short and way too open in the back.  He thought about removing his socks, but then thought his feet would probably get cold so dismissed that idea.  Finally, there was a knock on the door followed by John’s voice. “Can I come in, Sherlock?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Yes, John.”

John came into the room with a distinctive air about him.  Undoubtedly, he had already texted Mycroft about the fate of the Serbian prison and all of those employed within and undoubtedly there were very diplomatic phrases about how the British government had felt it within the best interest of the people to rid the planet of every brick and blood cell contained toot fucking sweet and with great prejudice.  John would feel some relief that his abusers were dead, he would also feel robbed of the pleasure of it being by his own hand or having at least played some part in it. 

Sherlock obeyed John’s “lift your arm, open your mouth” and other mundane instructions as John moved about the room with various instruments and examined Sherlock. 

“I was just reading about a case in your inbox.”

No he wasn’t.

“Sounds interesting.  You want to hear about it?” John asked.

“Sure.”  Must be the grand finale coming up, Sherlock thought.  _Trying to keep me distracted.  Lovely John._

“Mrs. Slitheen lost another piece of jewelry,” explained John.  Mrs. Slitheen was on their frequent flyer list for lost items, lost earrings, lost dog, missing son, etc.  She had zero faith in the police and when Sherlock had made himself known to her by finding her precious Isabell, the Corgi, several years ago, she called upon Sherlock for every minute mystery in her life.  She was pleasant enough.  A bit spoiled by her life of wealth and privilege but she was harmless and respectful of Sherlock and his “sidekick”. 

“Mrs Slitheen?  What has she lost now?” Sherlock asked as John coaxed Sherlock to lie down flat on the table.  He felt the gown being lifted, his legs parted as John’s clinical touch continued. 

“A broach that her daughter gave her for Mother’s Day ten years ago.”

 _Scenario in which there is decidedly zero to do with sex.  Thoughtful, lovely John._   “Diamonds?”

“Actually, no.  Emeralds.”

“Hmmm, from where was it taken?”  John put the gown back in place then placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and one on his hip, encouraging him silently to turn onto his side, facing away from John. 

“It was taken from her jewelry box at home.  She had just been wearing it to the Gala at the Art Museum.  She brought it home, felt too tired to put it back into her safe so placed it inside a jewelry box on her nightstand, locked her bedroom door and went to bed for the night.  When she woke up, her door was still locked but the broach was gone.” 

 _A Gala at the Art Museum?_   Sherlock knew there had not been a Gala at the Art museum in 3 years. Fundraisers of other sorts, sure, but a “Gala”, no.  Also, Mrs. Slitheen keeps her jewelry box on her dresser, not her nightstand.  Bless John and his distraction efforts.  “A locked room robbery?!  Is it my birthday?” 

“You’ve never told me when your birthday is so how would I know?”

Ignoring the birthday comment, Sherlock continued, “hmmm… Mrs. Slitheen is a widow.  Her son is a drug addict but has been sober for nearly six years.  His inheritance would be affected if he were to relapse, but he does have gambling issues.  The daughter has nothing to gain by stealing the broach.  She married into a family of status and wealth herself.  What about the staff?”

“Um … five people on staff.”  John gently pulled Sherlock’s top leg forward, further exposing Sherlock for examination. 

Sherlock remained silent. 

“Five people on staff at her estate, Sherlock.” 

“Right, she had a …” Sherlock closed his eyes and felt the cold and then the pressure of the internal examination.  He took slow deep breaths.

“She had a house manager, two housekeepers, a cook and who else?”

Sherlock thought for a moment.  “Mrs Slitheen doesn’t have any other overnight staff at her estate.”

John finished the exam and covered Sherlock back up again moving away and pulling off his gloves.  “Well, you’re forgetting about the Personal Trainer.”

Sherlock sat back up on the table.  “Mrs. Slitheen is 87 years-old.  She does not have a personal trainer.”

“She does now.”

“She does not.”

“Yep, Vin Diesel is his name.  Swedish fella.”

“John, I may not know who Madonna is or how the solar system works but I do know who Vin Diesel is and he is not Mrs Slitheen’s new personal trainer.” 

John huffed in indignation.   “Seriously?  You probably know about three people in pop culture and Vin Diesel is one of them?”

Sherlock shrugged, “I am gay.  Pretty sure Vin Diesel is required knowledge.” 

Smirking, John chuckled.  “Yeah, what other good lookin’ blokes d’ya know then?”

Making a show of trying to think of someone, he finally shook his head, “nope, that’s it.” 

John laughed out loud. 

“Nice distraction technique doctor.  Does this work with the general public as well?”

“Nope, you’re a special case.”

Sherlock smiled.  “You’re an idiot.”

John laughed.  “You’re welcome,” he moved toward the door.  “Get dressed.  You’re fine.  Let’s go home.”

 

 

When he was filing memories in his mind palace that night, he remembered that he had admitted out loud that he was, in fact, gay.  He’d never done that before.  He never thought he would.  Of course, Mycroft knew.  He’s always known but they’d never talked about it.  Why should they?  They never talked about personal matters.  John was someone that he had thought about telling.  In a previous life.  He had thought about it, fantasized, dreamed of taking their relationship to a different level.  He took a few moments to mourn the loss of what was supposed to be once more. 

It was always time that they had so much of.  First it was John dating woman after woman and never finding what he was searching for all the while flirting and defending Sherlock.  He knew John just needed time to realize what was in front of him.  Sherlock wouldn’t rock the boat himself because the work kept him occupied.  Caring is not an advantage.  He didn’t need the entanglement of him and John back then anyway.  He selfishly needed John to be his conductor of light and he had no experience in matters of the heart.  He would have messed it up and then he wouldn’t have him at all.  They had plenty of time to let the relationship mature and coalesce into something more. 

Then came Moriarty and the fall.  Two years is a long time to dwell on what should have been.  In the early months, Sherlock swore he would tell John how he felt when he finally did come home.  He just had to give himself time to solve the Moriarty puzzle and then he would go home.  He would sit John down and explain how important he was and how he just couldn’t spend another moment without him in his life, in his bed, in any and every way.   He was in love with John and he would love for that to be true the other way around as well. 

Then time ran out.  With his capture in Serbia came the death of everything he ever dreamed of for him and John.  It wasn’t the rape and the torture that made him feel like happiness was not an option for him ever again.  Not at first.  The first several weeks of being endlessly tortured and abused, he was still a strong man.  A man fighting for something.  A man who still had a soul and was willing to claw his way back to normalcy.  The Neanderthal cretins in that Serbian prison couldn’t hold him down.  He had too much to fight for.  No, it wasn’t the simple fact of the things he had gone through.  Time has a funny way of wreaking havoc on your dreams.  Time, absolute lengths and lengths of time being beaten, starved, dehydrated, burned, the list went on.  A week felt more like a month.  A month more like a year.  Time chips away at everything you thought you were or thought you could be and everything you dreamed you could be is more and more out of reach.  He was just beaten down and raw and then scabbed over and scarred.  Time, as much as the things he had survived, had broken him.    

A confession of love wasn’t going to fix that nor was it fair to John.  Obligation out of pity for your best friend was not the basis of a relationship.  The scene he had played over and over in his head of he and John was never going to happen.  There was no happily-ever-after scenario in Sherlock’s life.  He had the work.  It was good enough for him back then, it can be good enough once more. 

He just had to get his brain to work properly again. 

 

 

Sherlock finally fell asleep after midnight and slept the sleep of the dead which was why he was so mad that the screaming that woke him up.  Then he realized it was John trying to wake him. 

He woke with a start, moving to the other side of the bed reflexively before he recognized the voice. “John!  What happened!?” 

“Easy, Sherlock.  You were having a nightmare.  You were screaming.”

Sherlock rubbed a hand over his own face and then took in his surroundings.  The thrashing that had obviously gone on in his bed, his pajamas askew, his sheets soaked from sweat, his heart beating fast, his breathing too fast, the complete, engulfing feeling of anxiety wrapped in agitation. 

Sherlock grasped John’s arm.  He wasn’t sure if it was to calm himself or get him to stay with him.  He knew he needed to do his counting and breathing exercises, get ahold of himself, but things were just so far down the tunnel.  It was difficult to come up with the right order of the numbers, to think or to breathe. 

“It’s okay, Sherlock.  You’re right here at Baker Street with me.  You’re safe, you’re at home, Sherlock. Take deep breaths.”  John talked soothingly.  Sherlock obeyed.  His voice, that beacon of light that he had heard so many times whether it was in real life, in his dreams or the voice in his mind palace, John’s voice always made him feel safe.  “That’s it.  You’re doing fine.  Keep taking deep breaths.  You’re safe.  You’re right here with me at Baker Street.” 

Slowly his breathing evened out and his heart didn’t feel like it was beating its way out of his chest.  Realizing he still had an iron-grip on John’s arm, Sherlock loosened his hold. 

“Better?”

Sherlock nodded, stiffly.

John sat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed and began taking his pulse at his wrist.  “Good.  D’ya remember what it was about?”

“No,” a lie.

“Okay.”  John smiled the condescending smile of a physician who knows when their patient is lying.  “Any pain?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved to stand then stopped dead in his tracks barely able to breathe again.  The pain made itself known during the movement, no longer hidden by the anxiety.  Tearing, burning pain lit up his backside like being impaled on a hot poker.  He took deep breaths again.  Will the cycle ever stop?  Nightmare.  Anxiety. Breathe. Pain. Anxiety. Breathe.  As far as John was concerned, the worst of it was only less than a day old.  To Sherlock it had been an endless pattern for so long, the incident yesterday only pouring salt on a very old, open wound.  He was tired.  He was frustrated and yes, he was angry.  If John wasn’t there to mother-hen him to death, he’d be able to scream, hit a wall, break a cup or two throwing them into the fireplace. But he couldn’t do that with John in the room.  He wouldn’t alarm him, make him worry.  Deep breath.  Deep breath. 

“What’s wrong?”  John asked in alarm.

“Nothing!”  _Damnit, go away!_   “I’m fine,” Sherlock said, jaw tight.

“Well, it’s obviously not nothing.  Tell me where you hurt, Sherlock.”

Sherlock got himself back under control and moved more gracefully to a standing position, pushing John to stand as well.  “As I said, I’m fine.  I apologize if I woke you.  Won’t happen again, I assure you.” 

“What are you talking about?  I’m not bothered, Sherlock.” 

“I appreciate your … friendship.  I’m fine now, obviously.  I will use the loo and attempt to go back to sleep.  If you shut your bedroom door, you will be saved from the auditory ramblings of my sleeping brain.  Good night, John.”  Sherlock turned on his heel despite every splinter of pain it caused, and walked toward the adjoining bathroom.

John looked angry.  “Oh, come off it!  You’re talking to me like you did the first time I met you.”  John shifted his weight and drew in a deep breath as Sherlock turned to face him once more.  “After all the complete and utter shit, we’ve been through in the last 24 hours, hell the last few years, are we really going to go back to square one?”

“John, I have no idea …”

“Bullshit!  You opened up to me yesterday,” before Sherlock could interrupt him, he reiterated, “yes, you did!  You told me things you never said before.  You told me you were gay which is decidedly more personal than you have ever been with me, you told me things, important things about your past about what you’ve suffered through.”  John sighed.   “I thought this meant you were letting me in.  You were allowing me to stand with you, help you.”

“I don’t need … help.”  He said the last word like it was disdainful.  “I told you because Mycroft was making my life miserable.  I told you because he insisted on it.”  Walls, walls, build the walls. 

“Nope, I’m not buying that.  You told me you were gay.  You didn’t have to say that to me.  You never have before.  I bet you’ve never told anyone that before, but you told me.”

Sherlock gave a defeated sigh.  “I was just trying to make you laugh.  I wasn’t thinking about it.”

“It did, it made me laugh.”  John took a deep breath and moved forward.  “Sherlock, look … if it’s the pain in your backside that you’re just embarrassed about, I get it.”

“I’m not talking about that anymore.  It serves no purpose.”

“I won’t ask about it anymore.  I’ll trust that you’ll tell me if you need me in that department.  Just don’t close down on me again.  Emotions aren’t really your area.  I know.  But when you came back, you were different.  More…”  John slumped, “… human, I guess.  I don’t mean that you weren’t before, but you didn’t take people for granted anymore.  You were more … kind? I guess.  I don’t know.  You know this is difficult for me.  All of this … stuff, but we are both human, Sherlock.  Both of us.”  He looked at his feet.  “Just don’t shut me out again.  I can’t keep tearing down walls every single day.  I think you need me right now and I think I need you to need me.”  He shifted his weight on his feet again.  “D’ya know what I mean?”

Sherlock looked purposely confused.  “Yyyess?  I think … I think this is a bit too deep for three AM.”

John smirked.  “Yeah, probably.”

“I’m fine, John.  I am.  I’ll let you know if I need you.” 

John nodded.  “All right, Sherlock.  Good night.”  Reluctantly, John removed himself from Sherlock’s presence.

Sherlock nodded and went into the bathroom.  He needed a moment by himself.  Needed to check his too sore fucking injury and his too emotional fucking head.  John said that he couldn’t keep tearing down walls every day.  Like it was possible for him to just let John waltz in anytime he wanted.  Walls were the only way to keep him from ruining John’s life.  Walls were what was keeping him functional. 

 

 

Over the next several days, the pain became bearable, then more tolerable and within a couple of weeks there was no pain at all physically.  John asked him more questions about Mohammed/Moses.  Why couldn’t he remember his fucking name?  It was ridiculous that he couldn’t remember his fucking name.  But then Sherlock remembered that he was actively trying to delete him in his mind palace so, he didn’t care.  ~~~~

John would be bringing him tea any moment and explain in more detail why he should see a therapist and why he should be “talking to someone” and blah blah blah, on it went every day ad nauseum.

“Ah, tea.  Made to perfection, I’m sure.”  Sherlock smiled at John

“You’re welcome,” John said with a look of indifference as he waited for the scathing comments to follow. 

“Will you be starting directly on the topic of a therapist or will you bore me with small talk beforehand?  Each day I wonder.  I’m trying to gather enough data on your body language, mannerisms, quirky ticks and whether or not you smile while handing me my tea to see if I can guess which it will be, but, as I’ve said before, John, you constantly surprise me.”

John sat in his chair.  “Try not to be a prick today, hmm?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “What’s the point of that?”

John picked up the newspaper.  “Just for the novelty of it, I suppose.”  He opened the paper.  “What would you like for dinner tonight?” 

“Ah, small talk first, it is then.  I would like to eat as little as possible, enough to get you off my back followed by as little small talk as necessary about my scars, my ‘psychological wounds’, my sexual experiences pre and post rape and then pre and post last week and the final highlight of the evening, going to fucking bed where I will then fall asleep and relive in great detail all of the things mentioned above.  I don’t need a therapist.  I talk already.  I talk to you.  I talk to you over and over and over again until I am nothing but what has happened and you won’t let me go on cases because ‘I’m recovering’ and you won’t talk about anything else and I swear to fucking God, if I hear the word ‘therapist’ come out of your mouth once more, I will scream, I swear to God, I will scream!” 

John strummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair and took in a deep breath.  “Okay.  Take a case.”

“What?”

“You heard me.  Call Lestrade.  Take a case.”

“Is this one of those ‘I don’t care what you do’ things where you say it but you really mean the exact opposite?”

“Nope.  You’re right.  I’ve harped and nagged too long.  It’s time to get back to what you love.” 

“If I call Lestrade he’s just going to call you.”

“Fine, I’ll text him right now.”  John picked up his mobile and did just that. 

Sherlock smiled.  “Thank you, John.  I’m ready.”

“We will soon see, won’t we.”

Sherlock was a bit perplexed by the phrasing John used but was distracted immediately by a call from Lestrade. 

“That was quick.  The Game is on.  Answer it.” 

 

Of course the pair were swept up into a maelstrom of case after case after case for weeks.  A human trafficking case went on for over a week with tragic loss of way too many children and adolescents.  In the end they broke up a huge trafficking ring and brought several key persons to justice but the mood at New Scotland Yard was far from jovial with the latest arrests.  They all knew there would be people to replace those that were arrested without even a slight hiccup in their operation.  The “dark web” was far too vast and very difficult to identify anyone on it.  What they had done had definitely saved lives and they took that as a win, but there were too many people still out there needing to be saved. 

John and Sherlock were exhausted.  They retreated to 221B and had a silent meal of Thai take-away, mechanically replenishing at least the physical reserves they had used on this particular case.  Sherlock remembered John asking him often how he was doing, hovering more closely and encouraging him to talk and to please communicate if he needed to step back.  But how could he step back?  He had decided that if he stuck with the specifics about the case, the money as the motivator of the crime, the inner workings, instead of the horrific exploitation of a sexual nature, he would be able to stay in the right frame of mind to work the case.  He used this investigation as a reason to refrain from as much sleep as he could, only indulging in brief 2-3 hour naps and only when his mind could no longer function without the sleep.  Setting his alarm for brief periods of slumber adequate enough to take away the sleep deprivation psychosis and melancholy, but no more, he kept the nightmares away for the most part. 

After John excused himself to go upstairs to sleep, Sherlock purposely left his mobile phone in the kitchen and then went to bed himself.  He knew the nightmares would come back but he had to start sleeping again.  Or at least, not waking himself on purpose anymore.  The case was done. 

 

Slashes across his back, the whipping of the leather against his skin, pulling of his hair, the stink of sweat the crack of the leather, the revolting, hideous laughter clawed around him, pervaded his every thought, smell, feel.  Disgustingly filthy language about their penises, their vile touch on his skin.  The invasion, the white hot pain over and over and over again.  He could feel himself having to give in to the touch, the invasion, the pain.  He could feel himself trying to get away, trying to move and not being able to, the panic following the realization that he was trapped.  The faces kept blurring together.  Sometimes it was a nameless Serbian, sometimes it was Mercutio Maximillian Fuckwit…the guy with the M name.

 

He woke with John on his bed, next to him, a hand on his shoulder, talking soothingly.  He started at John’s proximity at first.  John was always so careful to stay a safe distance away. 

“Sorry, mate.  I just had my own nightmare myself so I was already up when I heard you screaming.  You wouldn’t wake up when I called out to you and I’m so dead fucking tired I wasn’t sure I cared if you socked me a good one.”

Sherlock breathed rapidly, and was getting himself under control a bit, “I almost did.”

“Glad you didn’t.”  John yawned.  “Want to talk?”

“No.”

“Okay.  I’m going back to bed.”

“John,”  Sherlock took a deep breath.  “You can stay if you want.  I think this night is just going to be a bad one for both of us.”

“You sure?”  Sherlock nodded and John slipped efficiently in between the covers. 

 

 

His clothes were battered and torn and stunk of must and sex and sweat.  Suddenly the familiar walls of the Serbian prison were gone but the all too familiar faces of his captors were very present.  Dense forest open to him on three sides and his abusers on one.  They leered at him as though they wanted to devour him like they had done so many time before.  The disgusting things spewing from their mouths made Sherlock want to vomit.  He knew what they would do to him once they reached him and the thought of it made his stomach flip once more.  But he wasn’t in a small, brick-lined cell.  There was forest all around him.  He could run this time.  He could escape.  His captors took steps toward him, their mouths drooling and their faces turning to gruesome, zombie-like creatures.  Panic seized him.  They were coming closer and closer but Sherlock couldn’t move.  He took in a gulp of air and forced his body to move but nothing happened.  His arms felt like lead, they were so heavy.  The effort it took to start a stride was enormous, like he was running through molasses yet the creatures were getting closer and not hindered in any way.  He redoubled his efforts, he had to move, had to get away.  Go! He told himself.  RUN damn it!!  A knee was finally raised enough to be able to create enough power to push against the ground and finally propel him forward but the creatures were nearly upon him.  Push harder!!  You have to do better!! You have to go … NOW!!  No matter how hard he tried, his body would not obey.  Helpless …. He felt absolutely helpless and the panic seized him as he attempted to guard himself against the zombies in Serbian prison guard uniforms engulf him, dragging him down into oblivion. 

Sherlock took in a gasp of breath as he startled awake.  Apparently he hadn’t been screaming this time and he was sure John would probably appreciate that fact.  The sound of soft snoring next to him had him panicked once more and he scrambled to the other side of the room before he realized it was John and then remembered he had told John to just stay in his bed.  Why had he allowed that?  He scrubbed a hand through his hair and consciously made his body comply with his deep-breathing technique and attempt to control the panic, anger and uselessness he felt fill his chest and bubble up in his throat. 

Finally able to return to his own body and his current reality, Sherlock took a few steps away from the wall.  Shocked he hadn’t woke John up, he stared down a moment at his friend.  His beautiful John.  Turning away and admonishing himself for being so creepy in the dark, Sherlock moved toward his side of the bed again. He wanted to pace, but he really was tired and so weary.  He needed a cigarette.  Or some heroin.  He shook his head.  Not going down that road again.  Shezza had made his appearance when John was busy being a devoted husband and soon-to-be father. The Magnussen case had provided a distraction but the heroin was a bigger one.  The pain and misery of withdrawal was not something he wanted to relive any time soon and John, he knew, would leave him. 

John breathed next to him.  Sherlock contemplated John and moved closer.  He turned on his side and moved close enough to smell his flatmate right there at his shoulder.  John was warm and clean and felt like a balm to apply directly to Sherlock’s mind to soothe the rawness.  He closed his eyes and moved an arm around John’s midsection, feeling the soft cotton of his undershirt, the waistband of his boxers.  John was no longer snoring but didn’t move away.  Sherlock buried his nose into the warmth of John’s neck and breathed in deeply.  So clean, so warm and familiar and so like home. Like John.  The warmth continued to bloom throughout his body.  John’s touch didn’t make him recoil, his presence didn’t make him want to grit his teeth unlike so many others in Sherlock’s life.   “John.”  Sherlock pulled a leg up over John’s thighs.  John ran his hand up Sherlock’s arm and squeezed his bicep in encouragement. 

Sherlock brushed his lips against the skin that was immediately available to him at his shoulder.  John was perfect.  Sherlock bit his own lip and waited for John to pull away, tell him it was a bad idea.  He waited and then, it didn’t happen.  John let him lay there next to him, moving his lips against John’s shoulder and rest his leg on John’s thigh.  The warmth in his belly gained momentum and the distracting smells and noises became quiet.  Sherlock pulled his own elbow up underneath him a bit and was able to reach John’s jaw and neck and ear.  He kissed him tentatively, nipping at skin and breathing in pure concentrated John and it was glorious.  To his surprise, John kissed him back.  Sherlock knew John was a true friend, but to prove it like this … he didn’t know if he could ever repay this favor, or even If he should actually accept it in the first place. 

But John was so warm and so perfect and he could touch him and John would touch him back and not flinch in disgust or demand acquiescence.  The anger and panic of earlier a forgotten feeling in the depth of the blissful quiet within John’s arms.  Why shouldn’t he accept what John was giving him?  He never thought he could ever feel this kind of comfort and security again. 

John was pulling at Sherlock’s arms, he moved his mouth to Sherlock’s and kissed him.  The kiss deepened and Sherlock felt like he was in complete and utter bliss.  Now fully on top of John, Sherlock pushed at the vest until it was no longer there.  He sat back and manhandled John until his pants were gone too, leaving him naked and spread out before him.  Sherlock looked his fill.  He wanted, God he wanted John so much. 

He went to peel his own vest off but remembered his scars and didn’t.  He suddenly craved to be skin to skin with John then laid himself down on top of him.  Wanting more friction, he brought John’s knees up and around him by spreading his own between John’s legs.  The thin layer of pajamas was too much of a barrier and Sherlock raised himself up long enough to push them down past his knees then squirmed out of them.  Cock against naked cock was glorious.  So glorious.  The friction was amazing.  More, he needed more.  Raising himself up, he traveled down John’s body, pulling his tongue against John’s skin the entire way down to his cock where he put his nose right there at the crease of John’s groin and breathed in deeply. 

“Oh, God.”  Sherlock wasn’t sure who’s mouth that came from but it sounded good either way. 

John was warm and clean and his touch was nice, gentle, not invasive at all. 

Sherlock moved down and licked John’s cock root to tip.  It tasted divine.  He didn’t have any desire to pull it all the way into his mouth, but he did like to smell it and taste it and touch it.  He moved lower, his hands rolling John’s testicles, feeling the wavy skin, the feeling of his clean hair there and around the base of his cock.  It was heavenly.  He lifted John’s leg up and wider to expose him further.  He just couldn’t get enough of that clean, warm smell, the taste.  The thought of “mine” came to him unbidden.  John would have been his already if it hadn’t been for … well for way too many things conspiring against them in the universe.  This was a cosmically bad idea.  But John was writhing and willing beneath him and he had to have him.  Just once.  He had to know what being engulfed by this warmth truly felt like.  Just this once.  Just tonight.  No past, no labels, no identity crises, just them.  Two friends consoling each other on a difficult night.

Sherlock made his way back up John’s body,  his desperation must have been evident.  John nodded then turned half way to open the top drawer of the nightstand.  He shoved a condom and a tube of lube at Sherlock then attempted to turn over onto his stomach. 

A firm grip to John’s shoulder stopped him from turning.  “Stay on your back, please?” He needed to see him, to make sure this wasn’t all just a cruel dream.

John nodded and moved back to where he was previously positioned, underneath Sherlock, on his back, legs spread wide and wrapped around Sherlock’s back.  Sherlock laid down on top of John and pushed his hands underneath the warm and tender man to grasp at his arse.  He held one cheek in each hand and pulled him up into Sherlock’s groin.  He moaned at the friction.  Sherlock kissed his friend while John moaned into this mouth as well.  The point-counter-point between sandwiching John between Sherlock’s body and his hands was … there were no words.  It was astounding.  The warm friction on his tongue and on his cock felt incredible.  It was amazing.  Familiar and not at the same time.  He felt John’s glorious hands running through his hair, along his jaw, his arms.  He was talking, that silky voice saying such lovely things, calling Sherlock beautiful and brilliant and so many other words.  It was nice, soothing and brilliant.  That was John.  His John.  So fucking brilliant! 

Sitting back on his haunches, he took in the full sight of John flushed and naked.  So beautiful.  So achingly gorgeous.  He placed the condom on his own cock and smeared his penis with the lube.  He placed some more at John’s entrance and then pushed a finger inside him.  John gasped and pulled away a bit. 

“Did that hurt you?”  John would chalk up Sherlock’s abrupt approach as inexperience, which he was but he was also running out of patience.  He needed John’s body to be his.  Now. He felt like the bubble would pop any moment and instead of being in bed with John, the he would start to see and feel … like he wasn’t actually here.  He needed to feel something real, something perfect, just once. 

“No, keep going.  Just shocking.”

Sherlock continued to stroke inside of John and then leaned down to kiss him again.  The dual sensation of the warmth surrounding his finger and his tongue was glorious and soon it wasn’t enough.  He pulled his finger out and then lined up his cock and pushed.  John gasped and let out a small yelp. 

Sherlock stopped immediately.  “I don’t want to hurt you.  Do you want me to stop?”  _tell me to stop, John._ He recognized he had barely prepared the man enough to take his cock before he was pushing inside of his friend.  He admonished himself for that and continued to feel guilty, but there was an all-consuming need that just kept pushing forward forward forward, before it was too late.  Keep going before it all disappeared. 

“No, God no!  More slowly though, yeah?”  John took in a deep breath, visibly relaxed on the exhale and grabbed onto Sherlocks biceps and pulled his knees more outward and toward his chest.

Sherlock was shaken by the site of John opening himself up more fully to him, allowing him inside.  He rocked in and out slowly, taking him, making John a part of him.  John’s eyes were closed in concentration, his knuckles white as he gripped onto Sherlocks arms and shoulders.  When Sherlock went unexpectedly deep, John gasped and opened his eyes. 

He smiled up at Sherlock.  “Kiss me.”

Sherlock did and again the dual sensations were amazing.  His cock and tongue surrounded in the smell and taste of John.  Beautiful, warm, familiar John. 

“You’re so beautiful.  I’m inside you, John.  I’m buried inside you.”

John laughed.  “I know.  I feel every inch of you, you madman.” 

Sherlock finally bottomed out inside of John and stopped thrusting.  He rotated his hips a bit just to feel all the pure enveloping warmth.  Again he laid on top of his lover, snaking his hands underneath John and put his arse cheeks in his hands, pulling John up as he ground down, his cock pushing in deep. 

“Ugh … oh God, Sherlock … oh God!  That feels,” he gasped again, “that feels so...”

“You feel very tight.” Sherlock pulled up putting his weight onto his elbow as he drove into John hard with John making a satisfying ‘ugh’ sound with every stroke inside. He wondered briefly if he was doing it wrong.  John had a look of deep concentration on his face.  But the noises he made and the pure bliss spreading through his body distracted him from asking John if he was okay.  He pushed in harder and more quickly, he pulled John down onto his cock by his shoulders and then leaned more heavily into John, pounding and pounding, hearing the slap of flesh on flesh, John’s nonstop moans, the clean sweat mingling in with the smell of the lube and condom and lust.  John’s voice, the taste of John on his tongue.  It was all so much.  His orgasm was building, he could feel it.  It was right there, just over that last wall, he chased it harder and harder.  He heard the moaning and John saying Sherlock’s name over and over and he pushed in harder and faster and there it was… ugh, there it was.  Finally, his orgasm took over and he pushed into John one last time and emptied inside that tight, warm heat, then thrust a few more times to empty himself and ride out the last of the waves.  He collapsed on top of John, breathing deeply, breathing in John’s scent.  There was a ringing in his ears, a fog that he couldn’t shake right away.  He breathed some more until he finally calmed and relaxed. 

He felt John wiggle underneath him to disengage his cock from John’s body then he was being pushed to one side.  He wasn’t sure he felt his limbs or could make them work anymore so thank God John was strong enough to move him. 

 

 

When he woke later in the afternoon, the flat was very quiet.  He took a moment to feel the sunlight and delight in the fact that he had actually took in several hours of much needed sleep.  He remembered waking up to nightmares though and then “Oh fuck!” His immediate thought was “what in the hell have I done?”  He remembered the look of pain on John’s face, the acquiescence to Sherlock’s need, John saying his name over and over.  Was he begging Sherlock to stop?  Did he hurt him?  He remembered feeling comfort and familiarity and warmth but was it actually mutual or did he guilt John into giving him this experience because he knew Sherlock needed it to reprogram his memories?  He flung himself out of bed.  He had to know if John was okay. 

John was not in the flat.  He checked his phone, no texts, no calls. Was he at A&E right now.  Was he hurt?  He checked John’s work schedule on the fridge.  He wasn’t scheduled to work.  He might be taking a walk in Regents Park pondering the regret he felt for having sex with Sherlock.  Which was fine.  There was no reason to bask in any afterglow because of one night between the sheets together.  They were still who they were.  Bisexual John with a penchant to denying the “bi” in “sexual” and damaged Sherlock still unable to ever subject John to what a romantic relationship with him might entail.  Nothing had changed really.  Yes, they had sex, or more to the point, John had let Sherlock have sex with him for whatever reason—comfort from a grueling case, giving him access to pleasant sexual release for the first time in his life, whatever the reason, it didn’t mean the beginning of anything.  Hopefully Sherlock hadn’t damaged their friendship.  He remembered a heavy fog and ringing in his ears and he hoped he hadn’t hurt John or that he didn’t hear any John’s requests for him to stop.  Where the hell was he?  He just needed to know John wasn’t hurt and that he hadn’t … assaulted him?  Bile rose in his throat and he barely made it to the loo before he emptied his stomach contents into the toilet.  He would rather die than force himself onto John.  To hurt him in any way was a deplorable act. 

Once he finished and splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth, he decided he would text John.  If John answered his text, that would be a good sign. 

Just as he was about to send a text, he heard the front door open and then John’s gait on the steps.  Heavier steps than usual.  Either he’s carrying something or he’s hurt.  Unable to take the suspense any longer, he pulled the door to their flat open and rushed down the stairs in just his dressing gown. 

John was carrying a bag from Sainsbury.  He assessed him for a moment while he climbed the stairs.  Gait a bit stiff. 

John smiled then had a look of concern when he took in Sherlock’s appearance. “What’s wrong?”  John asked worriedly. 

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“You’ve never met up with me to carry the groceries in before.  What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.  Are you hurt?”

John kept climbing the steps, bags in hand.  “What?  No, I’m not hurt.  Why would I be?”  He placed the bags on the kitchen table. 

“You’re walking stiffly.  Did I hurt you last night?”

John smirked and blushed, a pink hue forming at the tips of his ears and his cheeks.  “No.  I’m fine.  You buggered me good, but no, Sherlock you didn’t hurt me.”

Sherlock did not look amused.  “And was there at any point that you … that you wanted … that you …”

“That I what?”

Sherlock looked frustrated.  “The ending … it’s sort of … foggy.”

“Yeah, you fell asleep on top of me.  Definitely poor form, that.”  He smiled.

“But I didn’t … you didn’t tell me to … stop at any time?”

“What?  No, why would you think that?”

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief.  The friendship should still be intact then.  He straightened his posture, pulled on his dressing gown and tied it up more tightly.  “Good.  I want to thank you for allowing me your company last night.  It was helpful and I’m very appreciative of your efforts.  I hope this doesn’t cause any awkwardness or stress to our friendship and I hope we can continue as though it never happened.  I think we’re both adult enough to acknowledge it as what it was and move on.”  He nodded stiffly and moved down the hall to his bedroom and then to the shower, leaving a slack-jawed John in his wake.    

 

Sherlock was relieved John didn’t hate him.  He had smiled, made flirty innuendos so he obviously had not done anything too … not good.  He wondered if John had orgasmed at all.  He didn’t remember.  He knew he hadn’t assisted John in that area but he knew it hadn’t lasted very long all together and he was rather selfish, especially in those last moments.  He supposed John could have come during the sex and then cleaned him up after he had flipped Sherlock over onto his back next to John.  John could have masturbated himself after Sherlock had fallen asleep.  He had no idea.  He was sorry that the only time he would ever have the opportunity to see John come he had passed right out directly after orgasm.  He wasn’t sure what the hell that meant but he was sure it was not a great technique. 

Another thing he was sure of was that John was probably going to tell Sherlock that he was ready for a relationship.  That his sexual identity crisis was over and he was finally embracing his bi-sexuality  and would like very much to pursue a relationship with Sherlock. 

Sherlock took a moment to think about what it would be like to have John like that, as his, as his lover, his partner, someone to make future plans with and talk about whether or not they need a new sofa or a dog.  He thought about going to Angelo’s and John not caring that there was a candle placed on the table or needing to correct anyone’s assumptions about them.  He thought about holding hands at crime scenes and how Lestrade would slap John on the shoulder and say “About damn time, mate!  Thought you’d never figure it out” and John would smile and his eyes would light up when he looked at Sherlock like he was the best thing that ever happened to him.  Then, after a case or a chase through London, they would stumble up the stairs kissing and pulling at clothes and just be so mad for each other they couldn’t even wait to get to the bedroom.  John would say things like “God, I’m gone over you” and “Sherlock, I love you” and he would pull off his coat and throw it aside along with Sherlock’s scarf and then he’d pull on his shirt until all the buttons went flying and then he’d see Sherlock’s scars on his back and he’d say “Where did those come from?” 

Sherlock dropped to his knees in the shower.  The water suddenly so cold, people … men yelling at him in Serbian, hosing off his naked body.  The whip making painful cracks against his skin, the smell of damp concrete and blood.  Being pushed forward against a wet wall, face scrapping against the brick, being impaled.  Pain. 

 _Oh God!_   He pounded on the wall of the shower.  He opened and closed his eyes.  _Not in Serbia.  Baker Street.  Serbia was a long time ago.  Just anxiety.  Breathe.  The water was warm.  The water is warm.  Baker Street.  He was at Baker Street.  Fucking breathe.  1 inhale, 2 exhale, 3 inhale, 4 exhale.  Baker Street.  John.  Breathe._

Slowly, he was able to bring himself back to the present.  The water was starting to get cooler but he saw the shower at Baker Street, the smells were of his familiar home again, the pain receded once more. 

He rinsed himself off and vowed that he would never subject himself to that kind of fanciful ideation again.  Happily ever after was not in his cards.  John did not need the fucked up, damaged version of who Sherlock once was.  This was his life.  _Nothing changes, we all just keep going round and round_.  _John deserves more than this._  

He was sure that having John in his arms once was the epitome of the sweetest, purist, pleasure he had ever experienced in his life and also the most horrific torture at the same time. 

 

John was waiting for him outside of the shower.  “Look, Sherlock, I know last night was … it was something I think we both needed.”

“Agreed.”

John nodded nervously.  “Right, yeah.  Well, in the interest of full disclosure here, I just wanted to say that I … I do fancy you.” 

John didn’t do declarations of feelings.  _Oh God, why is he starting now?_   Instantly he decided his next course of action.  This could not be encouraged.  As much as it pained Sherlock, this was not good.  He sighed and put on his most confused face like he didn’t understand the statement or silly things like human emotion.  He’d done that for years.  It was not difficult to muster.

John shifted his weight and cleared his throat which he always did when he was nervous.  “I know you are going through something right now and this is not the time.  No pressure, at all.  I’m not in a hurry.  I just wanted you to know that, when you’re ready, if you’re amenable, I would very much like to talk more about the possibility of … of us.”

God that had taken a lot for John to say.  Sherlock had to take a moment to mold his melted heart back into shape.  He had to keep his breathing steady and his true emotion hidden under the mask of confusion when he was dying inside.  His next words were going to hurt him.  It pained him to know that and to have to witness it himself. 

“John, after all this time, don’t you think that if I had wanted to have a … romantic relationship with you, I would have instigated it?  You’re my friend.  We’re obviously not even sexually compatible.”

“We’re not … what?”  John was visibly hurt.  Like a blow to the head. 

“If we were attracted to each other, that would have come up before now, don’t you think?”  Sherlock shrugged and continued into his bedroom.

“So last night?”

“Like you said, John.  We both needed it.  Sexual gratification is a way to instant relief of stress, raises serotonin, oxytocin and other hormone levels, makes one feel alive, attached, grounded to the world.  Relieves depression.  It is a tool that I think we both benefited from.  I do thank you for that.”  _Just leave it alone, John.  Just walk away, please._

“So you’re definitely … last night had nothing to do with being attracted to me?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  _Damnit John_.  “No.”  He scoffed.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  You’re not even gay.  You’re my friend.  My best friend.  You are invaluable, John, but we aren’t’ suited to be together in that way.”  He took a step forward.  “I hope you see that.” 

John was looking at his feet, he wore a tight-lipped smile and nodded.  He hurt.  Sherlock had hurt him.  deeply.  “Yeah, yeah.  I see it.  Ta.  Thanks for the shag then.”  He turned to leave. 

“John?”

“I’m going out Sherlock.”  His voice cracked and broken when he said Sherlock’s name. 

Once he heard the door slam downstairs, Sherlock collapsed onto the bed, distraught.  He sent a text to Mycroft. 

**Fuck you- SH**

It was several minutes later that he received a return text.

**Will you just tell him how you feel, for God’s sake.  MH**

**Brilliant advice!  You’re an idiot.  SH**

 

Sherlock had guessed John was with Lestrade at the nearest watering hole, commiserating about his miserable flatmate.  Lestrade sent Sherlock a text later in the evening confirming that he had just met up with him and that John had a definite headstart on the pints.  Sherlock decided to make himself scarce and avoid the drunken “but I love you scene” so he had gone to bed early. 

 

Sherlock glanced at the clock when the door was being noisily opened and not-very-quietly shut again.  It was 1am.  He had been sleeping but not very well.  Hopefully, John would just go quietly up the stairs and fall asleep.  There was a 60% chance he would.  John hated declarations of feelings.  He was very British after all, but then again, he had already done it once today and he was drunk so Sherlock couldn’t guess.  He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep, his back to the bedroom door. 

He heard his door open, a splinter of light coming through and then the rustle of John leaning on the door frame.

“I know yer not asleep,” John’s speech was slurred, “but tha’s okay.  Don need to say a word.  I know las night … wuz speshl.  I know it.  I felt it, still do, ack-shully.” John smirked a bit and Sherlock rolled his eyes at the joke.  He could imagine John shaking his arse at Sherlock. “But, yur goin’ through something now and it jus isn the right time.  I know that.  You helpt me thru so much, saved me so much.  Juss so you know tho, I’m not quitting you.  I think the fates or the universe or whatever you b’leive in have kep us apart for one reason or ‘nother … I don’ know why but you an I… we d’serve to be happy.  One day … one day you’ll see it.  You shut me out an let me back in when you need me and you do need me, so I’ll jus wait till you know that.  ‘Till then,” Sherlock heard John snap his heels and heard him say, “John Watson, Con … Conduc … Con-duck-tore of light reportin’ for duty”  he laughed at himself.  “Goodnight, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock sighed.  John Watson never stopped surprising him. 

 

 

The weeks went by.  John was always by his side.  If he wasn’t working, he came with him on cases.  He still did the laundry, and forced Sherlock to eat every once in a while and he still brought up therapy, especially since the nightmares were getting worse and more frequent.  Sherlock had spent a great deal of time in his Mind Palace cleaning up, filing, re-routing.  It didn’t seem to be working.  The nightmares would start out just like they always did but sometimes the faces would switch and he would be the one torturing someone, raping someone, then the face would change and be John’s.  Those were the worst kind of hell.  Sleep, he decided was over-rated and he began to set his alarm again for 2 or sometimes 3 hour increments. 

He couldn’t las like this.  It was ridiculous.  Why was it not working?  The sex between himself and John had been real.  Visceral.  He could still feel John on his skin, his body around his.  It was a very strong memory.  Why couldn’t he simply copy and paste it where it needed to go? 

Experience, he decided.  He needed more experience.  He couldn’t just depend on the one image he had to erase months of what had happened.  If you added one drop of white paint to a bucket of black paint, it would still be black paint.  He needed more.

 

Sherlock was typing up notes from his latest findings of the pig saliva he was working on, looking through the microscope on the kitchen table when John strolled in looking at his phone, perplexed. 

“Sherlock, do you have another Lonely Hearts ad right now?”

Sherlock ground his teeth and cursed Mycroft.  He continued to work.  “Why do you ask?”

“Mycroft sent me a text and said you do.”

“Ah.”

“Ah?  That’s what you’ve got to say?”

“I should think it’s my business and no one else’s.”

“Nope.”

Sherlock looked up, finally.  “Nope?”

“That’s what I said.  Nope.  As in, no fucking way in hell you’ll ever bloody go out to meet someone on this site by yourself.  Not happening.  End of conversation even if I have to quit my job, handcuff myself to you and follow you around day and night.” 

“I fail to see how this has …”

“I swear to God, Sherlock if you tell me this is not my business, I will punch you in the neck!”

Sherlock stood, ready for battle.  “The chances of meeting someone once, let alone twice with violent tendencies…”

John cut him off.  “I don’t give a damn how unlikely it is or how much of a paddy you throw.  I’ve watched you die, I’ve watched you fling yourself into danger too many times to count, I’ve killed for you, I’ve wanted to die to follow you, I’ve seen you,”  John couldn’t hold back the emotion finding its way into his voice.  He stopped.  Closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  Finally, he opened them and leveled Sherlock with a glare.  “Find another way.”

Sherlock sat down heavily.  “You don’t understand, John.  I can’t keep this up.”

John sat down.  “I do understand.  You think I’m not noticing that you don’t sleep, you don’t eat?  I notice it Sherlock.  I notice and I’m trying to help you but you’ve shut me out.  You’re convinced that you have the answers and that I’m an outsider that doesn’t understand your brain.  I think I’m the only one who understands your brain, Sherlock.  But I’m not going to try to convince you of it. I’ve tried.  You’ll exhaust every measure you think you have to do first, but you have to figure it out on your own. If you think you need more sex then just let me do that for you.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.  Subjecting himself to more of what was impossible for him to have was not an option. 

“I won’t be overly dramatic or sentimental.  You trust me.  It would just be what you needed it to be.  Nothing more.”

“John, … I can’t do that again.”

John cleared his throat and nodded.  John’s emotions were difficult to read.  There was hurt, disappointment, jealousy maybe?  Sherlock wasn’t sure. 

“Fine.  Just trying to help you.  If you need… more sexual partners, if that’s what you have to do, fine.  But you are NOT answering any Lonely Hearts ads and you’re not meeting anyone alone”

Sherlock pouted.

“Call Mycroft.”

Sherlock looked disgusted. “For what?”

“Maybe he knows someone or … something can be arranged.” 

“Like a prostitute.  Order off the menu?  John you’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being dangerous.  Erase your profile on that dreadful site and text your brother or I will.”  John hung his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose and mumbled under his breath but Sherlock heard it anyway, “or go to fucking therapy and deal with it properly and forget all this bullshit.”

“Nonsense.  I’ll choose someone from the site and I’ll have them come here.”

John put on his best Captain Watson face.  “You will do no such thing.  Mycroft will send someone who has been nothing less than fully vetted.  He will have vetted the person’s family and neighbors and his sodding cat as well.” 

Sherlock scowled and proclaimed, “I’ll erase my profile but I am not texting my brother for a prostitute.  I will continue to miss sleep, my memory and my will to live will dwindle exponentially every day until I am but a shell of the man I once was.  I will die a bitter old man, alone and broken.  I hope that’s what you wanted.” 

“Or you could start going to therapy like I’ve said for months,” John shrugged his shoulders indifferent to his flatmate’s drama.

“Oh, shut up!”  Sherlock stood and stormed into his room.

He eyed his phone.  He wasn’t going to do it.  No. 

 

Another nightmare in the middle of the night waking up the entire household and taking him entirely too long to recover was the last draw.  Even the two hour time periods of sleep were not working to abate the nightmares anymore.  Heedless of the time, Sherlock texted his brother at 3am.

**I require assistance.  SH**

**What kind of assistance, brother mine-MH**

 When Sherlock didn’t respond, Mycroft texted again.

**I am not a pimp—MH**

**Agreed.  Please tell John this information and I will put my ad back in place.  SH**

At 10 o’clock the next morning he received a reply from Mycroft:

**Tomorrow night.  He will be at Baker Street at 8pm.  –MH**

**And you are ridiculous. -MH**

Sherlock was somewhat nervous about the evening.  There was a possibility that he would still not be able to handle someone else touching him.  He thought back to the Mordecai/Mylo incident.  Being with a stranger was claustrophobic and prickly.  Despite his predicament and how steadfast he was in his intention, he had not been able to actually go through with it.  Those feelings of disgust might come back again.  This time, he knew he had to press on no matter what.  He hoped Mycroft had figured out that he did not want a man that was bigger than him or was imposing-looking.  Someone with a nice disposition, a warm smile, gentle. 

This brought Sherlock’s thoughts back to John. 

He shook his head.  He couldn’t let his mind wander.  

This, he knew, was not easy on John.  Sure they pretended nothing was amiss.  There were no more conversations after that night.  Sherlock paid special attention to John that day.  Made him lunch, took a walk in the park together.  He and John had dinner together, just like they always did.  John made something with chicken and peas.  It was delightful.  Their friendship had felt so strained over the last few months and now, this.  It was shameful to subject John to such cruelty.  But what was he to do?  Selfishly, he couldn’t live without John and John seemed fit to stay at his side despite it all. 

No matter.  They’d put it all behind them once Sherlock was right again.  Sherlock knew this was going to be what he needed.  He would be able to reprogram his brain like he said.  This would work.  He knew it would.  Then he could take cases again, have the work unsullied and have John by his side.  Life at 221B would be so much better again.  Normal. 

 

He heard the doorbell ring downstairs and Mrs Hudson answering and sending someone up.  He remained in his room until he heard a soft knock on the door to the flat.  He knew John was anticipating answering the door and he hung back to let him.  The man that Mycroft had sent would know the reason for him being there and would be expecting John to be in the flat.  No explanations would be necessary.  The hurt he was causing John by sleeping with someone else was regretful.  He hated himself for it but saw no other way.  John would appreciate the opportunity to be his protector if he couldn’t be his lover. 

Sherlock swept into the room and noticed John’s look of wonder at the open door.  He was staring.  Sherlock wondered why he hadn’t invited the man in yet and what was so astonishing that he had forgotten all manners so he moved forward to get a view of the visitor. 

Sherlock gasped.  “Mycroft!!”

John gave a self-satisfied smirk and told the man his services would not be required after all before shutting the door in his face. 

“I will gut him!  I swear to God, he will be a floating, bloated corpse!” 

“Looked a bit like me, didn’t he?”

“John, don’t be absurd.”

“Actually, he looked like he could be my brother.”  John smirked.

Sherlock huffed and tapped furiously on his phone.

“See, you and your brother have that grand deduction gift in spades but there is one thing that Mycroft is better at.”

Sherlock glared.

John continued, “And that is people.  He reads people better than you.  He sent you a hooker with a resemblance to me because why?”

“Don’t try to deduce anything, John.  I don’t want you to get a headache.”

“Because he knows what you like, that’s why.  Why would he think that you want someone who looks like me, Sherlock?  Or someone who IS me, perhaps?”  John was smiling. 

“Fine, yes wonderful, John!  You figured me out.  You know all my secrets about how I’ve loved you from the moment I met you.”  Sherlock gasped and choked on his breath.  “Bravo,” he said quietly. 

John stepped closer reaching a tentative hand to touch but Sherlock turned away, eyes downcast.  “Sherlock, I don’t understand.  If you feel like this why not just tell me?  You know how I feel.  I told you how I feel.” 

“It’s not that simple, John.”

“How is it not?  It’s the most simple thing in the world.” 

Sherlock shook his head and slumped into his chair.  “There is more to it than simple chemistry now.  There is so much water under the bridge.  I can’t take back what’s happened to me, I can’t change it, no matter how hard I try, it slips away from my fingers … “

John pushed his chair closer and sat across from Sherlock.  “What slips away?”

“Everything,” he sighed.  “My brain, my body … you.”  He gave John a hint of a smile. 

“I’m still here.”

“No.  Not the way it should have been.  There are no declarations, no feelings that can overwrite what has happened so what we may or may not have been destined doesn’t matter.  We are who we are and what’s happened has happened.  Nothing we do can erase that or bring forth the would-have-been possibilities.  I’m not … I’m just not the person who could be right for you nor am I the person who would subject you to anything less than what you should have.” 

“Sherlock, …”

“No, I know you’ll say I’m being foolish, that LOVE conquers all and we’ll be just fine!” Sherlock pumped his fist in a show of mock merriment and solidarity.  Placing his hands on his thighs, he continued, “but that’s not really how this works, is it?”

John moved to the edge of his seat.  “Listen, Sherlock.  I know you don’t think you’re good enough for a relationship, that you don’t want to hurt someone by showing them what kind of suffering you are going through.  It’s a lot to take on.  But, I know you Sherlock.  I know you can get past this.  You have no idea what I faced when I was invalided from the army.  My life was meaningless but I was able to find hope, find someone to share my life with.” 

Sherlock stood, the anger boiling at John’s weak comparison.  “John you were a soldier and a hero.  You took a bullet for God and Country with a scar to prove it!  I have a story about how I was brutally raped, beaten and tortured with an entire backside full of scars to prove it, that’s what I have.  It’s kind of a show stopper, John.  Nobody wants to know about that story.  Nobody cares that the minimally famous Sherlock Holmes went to Serbia to take down a criminal mastermind and ended up being a party favor at a 5 month long party.  You have a well-honored metal, you saved your entire platoon and countless other lives.  We might share the same diagnosis but we are not alike.  Do not … “  he visibly deflated.  “Do not compare our situations.  We are nothing alike.”

“Do you think that because I’m a doctor that I save more lives than you?  That I deserve more than you?”

“John.”

“No seriously.  Is that what you mean?  Because if we’re taking score, I think you’re up on me by far, Mr Holmes.  By far.  You said it yourself, you went to Serbia to take down a criminal network.  How many lives do you think you saved by doing that.  Not just those that would be murdered or killed directly but then the collateral damage after that.  The blackmail, fraud, treason, bribery, forgery, exploitation, trafficking drugs and humans, the list is endless, Sherlock.”

“All of those things still happen.”

“Yes, of course they do, but how much of it did you stop?  Not just in Serbia but wherever else you went while you were away, the countless cases before you left and the ones since you’ve been back.”  John stood and turned facing Sherlock.  “You saved my life Sherlock.  You are a hero a million times over and I know that because I’m here.  Because I’m standing right here and I shouldn’t be,” he cleared his throat and shifted his weight. “I should have been dead, could have been dead so many times, but you saved me Sherlock.  So, no, I wouldn’t dare compare my story to yours.”  John looked away and then back again at Sherlock, his best friend.  “I wouldn’t compare us because you, Sherlock, are much more brave and a much better man than I am, by far.” 

Sherlock was dumbfounded. It was rare that he was left speechless but … John.  Amazing, brilliant John. 

Sherlock let out a long bone-weary sigh.  “I don’t know what to say to that.” 

“Don’t say anything.  Just know it’s true.  Every word.” 

They both took some time to settle.  Neither knowing quite what to say, the anger, hurt and disappointment withering away being replaced with relief and peace.  Both sat in their chairs feeling humble. 

Several moments later, Sherlock cocked his head, “do you think your twin is still outside the door?”

John shook with laughter.  “If he is, he can sod right off!”  they both laughed.  Once they’d calmed a bit, John asked, “Sherlock, what are we going to do?”

Sherlock sighed.  “I suppose, I will solve cases and you will blog about it.”

“Yeah, we could do that.  In the in-between times we’ll take walks.  Long walks and have lovely chats with a lady I like to call Ella.”

Sherlock snarled a bit then nodded.  “Agreed.” 

“Thank God,” John sighed in relief.  “Look, Sherlock.  About us … or whatever this is and I hope that it’s more than you solving cases and me blogging about it, I just … I want you to know … if it happens naturally, organically, then great.  If we just be us, just the way we are, nightmares and scars and whatever comes up, then that’s fine to.  It’s all fine, Sherlock.  The important thing to know is I’m not going anywhere.  You are it for me.  I’m gone on you no matter what and I’m staying until you say otherwise.  Clear?” 

 

**The end.**

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed the story. Obviously, recovery is not something that happens quickly or in a linear fashion. I think Sherlock finally figures out that maybe he should actually jut listen to John and decide to move forward in a more healthy way. I do not think this is some sort of overall template for coping. This was just my view on how Sherlock might deal with this issue. In no way was I saying i know all about male rape. I'm not male, so I do not. This is just based on my research, my experience and attempting to get inside Sherlock's head. There was no intention to give anyone advise or as a treatment guide. 
> 
> Please leave a comment or a kudos. I'd love to hear what worked and what didn't. 
> 
> Thank you


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